Goldilocks and The Three Bayres
by feralpixc
Summary: Crack fic. Melding of Supernatural and the fairy tale 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears'. Mentions of a lot of other fairy tales. Ofc pov, as Narrator. Snark, shining armour, and Prince Charming: Dean Edition. What more is there?


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_Goldilocks and The Three Bayres_

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_Once upon a time there was a little girl named Goldilocks_ – okay, well, if truth be told she was a wee bit older than a _girl, _but who's counting the decades, really? Thirty is the new eight and a half. She was called Goldilocks, named for obvious reasons: her curly blonde tresses, courtesy of _Garnier Nutrisse_ Platinum. A beautiful slip of a thing – she had an infectious smile as wide and plump as her plastic surgeon – Pinocchio – could make it, slim size eight curves, sapphire eyes, bird brain… think stereotypical Anglo-Saxon fairytale 'heroine', and you've got it. Anyways, the story starts off something like this: one day she went walking through the forest, your faithful Narrator following to see if she got herself into any troub- I mean, started an epic adventure. Seemed like the sort of day such a thing would happen – sun shining high and innocent in the sky, greeting the clouds with a smile and a syrupy hello; brook babbling off to the right; wind rustling softly through the treetops. I mean, what else could you ask for?

She was swinging her hands, skipping and singing, tossing her hair back so it caught the light, giggling and sweet-talking birds, generally being perky as an athletics instructor – and me? I was yawning and stumbling along after her. I hadn't had my coffee yet – Goldie had decided we were going for an early morning walk, and we hadn't even had time for breakfast, thanks to the skinny blonde fitness freak. It was eight past six when we left the house, and I consider it a win every time I manage to haul myself out of bed before ten on a normal day. So, let the record state that it wasn't really my fault that she got a little ahead of me, and when I finally caught up to her she was dancing up to the Bayres' door.

Now, let me get things straight, alright? A bit of back-story for ya. There are three Bayres: John Bayre, the daddy – big, gruff, excess facial hair. Mary Bayre, the mommy – curvaceous, bakes good cookies, bit on the slow side. And last, but certainly not least – _I swear the kid's a giant's son in disguise_ – was Sammy Bayre – or Sam, really, because you call him Sammy and you get your teeth knocked out. Just ask Rumpelstiltskin – Fairy-Godmother, that was a mess. The dwarf had turned evil and stolen someone's baby after that particular episode. In any case, the boy's tall, smart, and a whiny rump _whinger_, but that's not the point. The point is the Bayre family is a powerful one – the woodland's Mafia, if you will. _And Goldilocks was breaking into their freaking house. _

"Hey!" I called out, hurrying after her up the path. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Can't you smell that?" she asked, voice holding all the bubbles of good champagne, and _possibly_ all the idiocy that comes from it. Not bothering to knock before she opened the door, she slipped inside, rounded hips undulating as though it was integral for her body to call the gaze of men, even if there were none in the vicinity. Considering her reputation – let's not get into that right now – I could well believe it.

Guess the Bayres didn't think anyone'd be stupid enough to rob _their_ house – then again, I guess they hadn't met Goldilocks. Fairy-Godmother, _now_ what am I supposed to do? They could come back at any moment! And getting hacked into tiny pieces for a stew is not on my to-do list, thank you _very_ much.

"Whatever it is that you smell – _I don't care,_" I said, darting looks around at the surrounding area; it seemed the sun was in on her plan and was playing hide and seek with the clouds, as everything suddenly looked all dark and sinister. Grey sky, dark arms of the woods, black shadows crawling over everything. I had to make sure there were no witnesses. Even the trees have ears, according to C.S. Lewis – and even if he's wrong, the squirrels round these parts sure as hell do, and huge, wide open mouths to boot. Everyone knows they'd do anything to score. "This is the _Bayres'_ house you blonde idiot! We have to get out of here before someone sees us!"

'Course, as usual, the protagonist didn't find it prudent to listen to me, the wise, all knowing Narrator who's been around more fairytales than they have brain cells. So she went in, and because of my stupid job, I had to follow. To recount. And, no doubt, get shot in the spleen.

I swear, if I get out of this alive, I'm quitting. And this time I _really _mean it.

Goldilocks was at the kitchen table when I reluctantly came in, nevertheless shutting the door quickly behind me. Sitting there were three bowls of lumpy, pale porridge, and our _ever_ intelligent, vivacious heroine was lifting the spoon of the first – the one in front of the of the table's chair, probably John Bayre's – to her red, lip-sticked mouth. I shut my eyes in horror, wishing hard that I was back home in my bed, and one of the Prince Charmings' were making caffeine.

Hey, it had worked for Cinderella, right? The wishing thing. Why not me?

"This is too hot!" she exclaimed, and I sighed in relief. Oh, and then she moved on to the next, tasting that too. I hoped she didn't give the Bayres HIV or something. Who knew how many diseases she had? Everyone knows what she's like. Especially me, but _oh no,_ I had decided to come with her anyway, hadn't I? Stupid headquarters… stupid assignment… the next mission had better be better than this one. Looking after and recounting the adventures of the various Mary Sues in children's tales is no piece of chocolate cake, let me tell you. I've had more hospital visits than the Brothers Grimm. 'Course, I can't really complain – the Princes have it worse off than even I do. They usually have to marry the bimbos in the end.

"This is too cold," she whined, sticking her tongue out in disgust. There were still white bits stuck to it. Gross.

"So, can we go now?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

She _giggled_. As though I were being _silly_. "Oh, Narr, you're so silly," she squealed, the story maker's vast and sadistic sense of irony striking the innocent again, and stuck the silver spoon into the last bowl. I was pretty sure it was Sam's – it had his name on it in big, primary-coloured letters. "Ah, this porridge is just right!" she said, tasting it. Then she ate it all up. It was kind of scary to watch actually, this skinny twig, all elbows and knees and silicone curves gobbling up oats and honey and milk as though it were going out of fashion. Oh, and then after Sam's bowl she ate the other two as well. Wow.

"Hungry?" I asked dryly, and she nodded around licking Mary's bowl clean, coils of fair hair writhing down her back and into her face, only to be tossed back impatiently.

"You have no idea," she said, finally sitting back and holding on to her stomach with a lusty moan of appreciation. Her whole body was relaxed and satiated, legs spread, hands dangling high on her thighs. I was only glad I wasn't standing in front of her – mini-skirts plus open legs? Not my favourite sight, thanks. "They have us all on diets you know; lettuce and water every day. Carrot if we've been good or started our adventure."

"Huh," I acknowledged, bored. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. I was sure that the media in charge of supplying small children with morals and early guidelines on how to live their lives wouldn't give in to the consumerist ideals of beauty. It was just that the Mary Sues were all aspiring models slash anorexics, or something. Goldilocks was probably bulimic. Just you wait 'till later. I'll be sure to describe every vivid detail of her toilet scene. "_Now_ can we go?"

"Aren't you tired?" she asked, instead of answering. She stood up and stretched luxuriously, obviously full after her three, heaped bowls of stolen porridge. We were _so_ dead.

"Uh, no. Adrenaline, fear, heart pounding fit to burst out of my chest… any of this ringing a bell for you?"

"I'm tired," she said, ignoring me, and headed towards the living room. I wondered if I'd get fired if I left her here now. Fired or killed, killed or fired? Fairy-Godmother, I'm so gone. "Narr?" she called, just as I was a foot from the door. "Come here for a sec?"

I stared at the doorknob longingly, then sighed, turned back and trooped into the living room. It's my job, after all. Goldilocks was studying the three chairs placed about the plasma screen TV, with surround sound and all those other gadgets that the really rich have and normal, non-technologically inclined people don't know the name or purpose of. In other words, me. Looked pretty cool though. "What?" I asked, long suffering, and crossed my arms over my chest. The windows were wide open, letting dull light – and anyone's curiosity – into the room. I ran over and closed them quickly, fastening the shutters and locking them. Then I turned back to Goldilocks, to watch more and more of the tale unfolding. And boy was it ever inspiring.

She sat in the first chair, a straight-backed, wooden one with two arm rests and a dinner jacket hanging off the back. "This chair is too big!" she said, sapphire eyes filling with confusion and the start of tears. Her bottom lip pushed out in a pout.

"_I _could have told you that," I groaned, and rubbed my forehead. I was starting to get a tension headache – in comparison Goldi looked liked she'd consumed enormous amounts of E before we went on this _'pleasant, early morning walk, Narr'_, eyes shining, leg jittering against the wooden boards of the floor, making this annoying pattering sound. "Uh, can I ask you something?" I paused, ran my own, irritated eyes over her. She smiled up at me, completely blank, leg still drumming. I tallied internally how much I'd get sued for if I chopped it off; considering the fact it probably would have been done in by the Bayres by then anyways, I might be able to swing it all in my favour as self-defence. See, if she's legless she can't struggle when I drag both our rumps out of here – affectively saving us, even if it were in a mite gory fashion. "You do realise the Bayres are going to kill us if they find us here, right?"

"Why would they kill us?" she asked, bottom lip now quivering with supreme, and _achingly_ attractive vulnerability, eyelashes a dark curve on her flawless skin, one tear standing out like a silent prayer. They got taught to utilize that look young. I sighed, and rolled my eyes. There was just no arguing with the protagonists when they got like this – they always thought they were right.

"Never mind."

She got up from – what I assumed to be – John's chair, mood switching back to bubbly and perky as quick as a light bulb flicked off, moving on to the next piece of rump-holding furniture. It was a squashy, pink and floral one with too many cushions and a basket of knitting situated at its right side. She sunk in so far her knees almost met her chin. "This one's too big too!"

Fairy-Godmother, I need a beer. Yeah, before seven o'clock. You got a problem with that? I _especially_ need one, if this is going to keep going on for the whole duration of this stupid, anti-feminist, stereotypical depiction of –

"This one's just right!"

Maybe I should just go straight for the hard stuff. Why not raid the Bayres' liquor cabinet while we're at it? It's not like it could get any worse. And then, as though in answer to my inner thoughts, there was a huge crash from below my sightline – I had been eyeing the ceiling in supplication. You didn't need a narration for _how_ she sat on the chair, did you? When my eyes shot downwards, there was Goldilocks, sprawled on her back, perfectly shaped legs in the air, chair all to pieces beneath her. I don't suppose it was a new position for _her_, but the chair on the other hand –

"Sugar!" I yelled, and pulled her up, shaking her shoulders so her curly golden locks all flew into her eyes, whipping her slim body back and forth with my fear. "Sugar, sugar, _sugar!_ If we weren't dead before, we definitely are _now_. You broke their _chair._ You broke the _Bayres'_ goblin-tapping chair!"

"Narr! Language!" she scolded, brushing off me and her mini-skirt. She smiled at me, completely guileless. I wanted to choke her. "I'm sure they won't mind."

"Won't mind? Won't _mind?!_" I was hysterical. This was so, so bad. We had to _leave_.

"Are you having hearing troubles?"

"No, I'm not having hearing troubles! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"I'm still tired."

"Good, then let's go back to headquarters, and we can just –"

"No, Narr, I'm _really_ tired," she whined, reminiscent of a three year old elf. "I can't make it back that far."

"It's a tapping five minute walk! Three if we jog, one and a half if we run!"

"Narr!" And then she was walking up the stairs to the Bayres' bedrooms – well, flouncing might be a better description. All airy-fairy, smiling and swaying. I, like the dedicated employee that I am – _are you reading this Mr Christian Anderson? Is this a good time to discuss my need for a raise?_ – followed her. At the top of the stairwell was a large room, three beds lined up against the wall. I wondered if John and Mary were still in marriage counselling. And if Sam was scarred for life after having been living in this arrangement for all his twenty four years.

I vote yes.

"This bed's too hard!" Goldilocks groused after throwing herself on the one made up military style, corners all tucked, quilt tight enough to bounce a coin off. John's, I guessed. She got up and moved to the next, and I contemplated hiding in the wardrobe. Maybe after a few weeks I'd be able to eat my way through the wood of the back, and then I would be free! "This bed's too soft!" she said, after Mary's crazy patch-worked quilt one. Then she moved on to Sam's bed, and you guessed it; "This one's just right!"

She immediately fell asleep.

Me? Well, I paced back and forwards, and wished I had a set of wings. I heard there was a sale on them just last week at Little Red's Riding Hoods – the place to shop for all your fairytale needs. Narrator: Jo Edition had told me all about it; flaunting her new eight feet of fluffy white wingspan as though she were Cher, or something. Unfortunately, I'd been on another case at the time – and let me just say, Snow White #612? Total bitch. I hope she stays in that bloody glass coffin for eternity, even if it means a bad mark on my resume. I mean, there's a fair few on there already, what can one more hurt? Yeah, so I'd been washing her dirty laundry for her, and then BAM! I come in and see an apple rolling out of her anaemic hand. Poisoned, of course. Idiot. They never learn. The dwarves had given me hell.

Still, the only thing I regretted was missing the _LRRH _sale. It would have saved me now.

There were three pairs of footsteps stomping up the stairs, heavy and ominous. There could be no doubt as to who owned them – and knowing this, I froze. Stood right in the middle of the bright, sunlit room, eyes wide, hands clenched in the worn denim on my thighs, and _froze._

Goldilocks snored.

The door opened to spew the three Bayres into it, John at the forefront, growling out a, "Someone's been sleeping in my bed!" He never even glanced at me, which was probably the only thing saving me from fainting on to the floor in an undignified heap right there. Did I mention – Bayres equal woodland Mafia? Yeah. Knees chattering, over here. Also, he was carrying a cocked Winchester rifle, so… Tell my mother I love her, and that I want her to make sure Narrator: Cassie Edition keeps her claws off my stamp collection, okay?

From behind him Mary peeped, eyes narrowed on the rumpled covers of her bed, her greying hair swinging into her worn face, wrinkles all the more evident as she scowled and said, "Someone's been sleeping in my bed, too!"

Apparently all the characters in this story have a penchant for stating the obvious. It's just my luck, isn't it?

From over the tops of their heads, Sam Bayre stared in open-mouthed shock at his own, multi-hued, crumpled and rucked up bedspread, the covers all pulled around Goldilock's scantily-clad form. His hazel eyes were wide, his nostrils flared as he said, following in the footsteps of thrice repeated lines, "Somebody's been sleeping in my bed, and she's still there!" Then he swung up the 9mm Beretta clasped in his huge, tanned hand to point straight at the blonde's head where it lay against his pink and green pillow.

Before I could make a move, say something, anything – the window next to me crashed open, splinters of glass scattering over the room, one slicing a cut open on my cheekbone. The sharp noise woke Goldilocks – she sat up and let loose a high pitched scream, piercing enough to pop eardrums. A body rolled in through the broken shards over the floor, glass crunching under it in tandem to the distress call of all Mary Sue damsels, and stood, its own hands steady around the .38 trained on the three Bayres. It was a guy; broad shouldered, cropped gleaming hair, gleaming chain mail that glass was shaken off of in one fluid movement. I knew who it was.

And was not tapping pleased.

"Prince Charming: Dean Edition! What the tapping hell are you doing here?" I said, glaring at him, not budging an inch. He was not meant to be in this story; none of the Charmings were – it was a Narrator job, and I did not appreciate him cutting my grass. But that didn't faze him one itty bit, did it? He was always breaking the rules of the scripts; never following the guidelines set by the N&PC Corporation. I'll give you an example; just last week he was working one of the Rapunzel jobs, alright? Now everyone knows how that goes, _'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair'_ – you know, all that crap. Prince Charming: Dean Edition? He did not stand at the base of the tower and wait for her to do her thing – instead he got a grappling hook and climbed to the top on his own. And this is just one example. He's a complete vigilante, and totally incorrigible – but still all the Narrators at base fawned over him like gold eggs came out of his ass, or something. Myself excluded – the guy was hot, what-the-tap-ever, but he was an egotistical asshole without any concept of boundaries. Looks aren't everything; just ask the Princess and her 'frog'.

"What does it look like?" he asked, not taking his hazel green eyes off the tense Bayres, mouth smiling and easy as though he was just taking a stroll through the neighbourhood, not holding up the wealthiest family in the area. His voice was all easy nonchalance; it set my back up even higher than he had when I'd _first_ realised who it was bursting in on the scene.

Prince Charming: Dean Edition and I had a bit of a history. None of it particularly pretty, all of it filtered through with short tempers, prissy tantrums, and biting wit. I didn't like him, he reciprocated. When possible we stayed clear of each other; when not, we were bitchier than a pack of cheerleaders at a rival game – _without_ the fun of rhyming and dancing and pom-poms, unfortunately.

"But you're not _in _this story," I pointed out, and could have smacked myself. Seems I'd picked up everyone's inherent need to state the obvious.

"Well, I should be."

"Uh, excuse me…?" John tried to interrupt, but I just talked over him, staring right at the side of Prince Charming's thick head.

"Oh _yeah_? Care to elaborate?"

"Well, you're doing a pretty sugar job of it, aren't you?" he said, made one, smooth sweeping motion with his weapon that pointed out the Bayres' guns, Goldilocks – who was still screaming on the bed – and just the situation in general. Oh Fairy-Godmother damnit, he was _right._ I was supposed to have been protecting her, but this whole dumb-rump story I'd been trying to shirk my responsibilities as a Narrator. I hated it when he did this, burst in on my tales as though he owned them; but most of all I hated it when he was tapping _right_. Not that I was going to admit it or anything, and it's not like –

"It's not my fault she decided she wanted to try a little B and E on our walk this morning – she wasn't listening to me. Like someone else I could mention, _Prince Charming._"

"Call me Dean," he said, and sent me a wink, gun still unwavering in his hands. The Bayres and I stared at him; the three Bayres in consternation, me? In aggression, annoyance, and just plain, flat out disgust. I _really_ didn't like him. Always popping in on my jobs as though I couldn't handle a simple 'wash your hands', 'don't trust the stepmother', 'don't go with strangers' moral. Damn him.

And Goldilocks was still screaming.

"I'll call you _something_," I muttered under my breath. If the grin was any indication, he'd heard me.

"Uh, excuse me?" Mary, this time.

"Yeah?" I asked, turning to her, quelling the anger at Prince Charming: Dean Edition, and the fear that was still scrabbling inside my oesophagus.

"Can we get back to our story now? I mean, really…?"

"Oh, right, sorry, of course ma'am." I coughed, and stuttered, blushing, and pulled my assignment out from the back pocket of my jeans. The envelope was still sealed – I hadn't had time to look at it yet, _okay?_ – and opened it up, tearing the left edge. I flicked through the script I'd been given to the last pages, and cleared my throat, reading it out. "Someone's been sleeping in my bed – oh, we've already done that. Uh, let's see here… right. Gotcha. 'Just then Goldilocks woke up and saw the three bears. She screamed, 'Help!'' –" I paused here, looking at Goldilocks meaningfully. Thankfully, she didn't show me up for once, and said the line quite meekly, having stopped screaming as soon as I'd gotten the story out of my denims. "'And she jumped up and ran out of the room. Goldilocks ran down the stairs, opened the door, and ran away into the forest. And she never returned to the home of the three Bayres'.'"

There was a moment where everyone stood, still and waiting. Then Goldilocks said, "Wait, I do that now?"

"It might help," I said, closing my eyes in very real pain. I mean, she was my charge and all. Even if she had the brain power of a gnat. And the voice projection of a hippopotamus in mating season, I mean, Charles Perault, where the hell did she get a scream like that? If I never heard it again it'd be too soon. Anyways, back to the point – her actions affected my reputation, so, her being stupider than said gnat really didn't make me look good. Which really wasn't the best for my image, if I was looking for that pay rise – or at least a reference so I could, you know, get a job outside of babysitting butterfly blondes and contending with chauvinistic pigs – plus there's that whole, life-always-on-the-line-because-of-other-people's-ignorance thing, which isn't really my forte.

Kind of like Prince Charming: Dean Edition always butting in on my cases, to 'save the goblin-tapping day, you ungrateful pixie. I mean seriously, Narr, what the hell is your problem?'. (That was always, _always_ his response when I asked him afterwards. Fairy-Godmother, it was getting old, considering how many times he said it a week. Over ten if the take was fat.) He was always showing me up, as though he had to prove something. What the _hell_ was his deal? That's what I wanted to know. That, and what cologne he used, because he always smells kind of musky and smoky and like vanilla, and I wanted to get some. Not get some, _get some_, from like, _him, _but get some of his cologne. Right. Because it actually smells alright…for something he owns, I mean, okay, so the guy has good taste – he wears this brown leather jacket every time I see him outside of work – even he wears his shining armour when on duty – that just catches the light and actually makes him look passably attractive – you know, if you go for a dude who can't go three seconds without insulting you and demeaning your position and – why the hell am I thinking about him when I should be focusing on the case? Right.

Everyone waited for Goldilocks to commence with the running from the room-ness. She was still sitting on Sam's bed, the covers over her lap, her breasts practically falling out of the thing on her torso that dared to call itself a top. The Bayres were still holding their guns, although they looked a little confused, and the atmosphere was bordering on tense enough to spontaneously combust. But whatever. If I edge quietly towards the window, where there is a convenient route to relative safety – guess the rumphole was good for _something_ – I can send backup – or Prince Charming: Dean Edition can, like, carry Goldilocks out the window and off on his noble steed. Seems like something he'd do; and he does have a certain fondness for leggy blondes, after all.

"Well, as fun as this has been," Prince Charming: Dean Edition said, and shoved his gun into the back of his waistband, strode up to Goldilocks, picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, "We really must be going." Guess I was right. Again. The blonde was squealing, and kicking her legs, acting the part of the abducted to a wonderful, if high-pitched extent. The elder Bayres were blinking, and Sammy was striding to the window to block the exit. Fairy-Godmother damnit, I'd only been a metre away.

Once there, he glared at Prince Charming: Dean Edition, and said, "You're not going anywhere – that woman broke into our house and vandalised our property; I demand legal action be taken over this."

"I've heard about you," Prince Charming: Dean Edition said, and smirked, the wriggling Goldilocks still locked in place over his shoulder, flashing her g-string to the whole world – I was trying to keep my eyes away, but seriously? It was _right there._ He looked the Bayre up and down slowly, raising an eyebrow, the corner of his mobile mouth. "You know they compare you to Jack's beanstalk? You're not a real man until you've climbed Sammy Bayre, they say."

At this Sam flushed red – his sexual orientation was well known in all quarters of the forest. He started spluttering, trying to – well, I'm not exactly sure, 'incoherent' is an understatement – and that's when Prince Charming: Dean Edition took the time out to punch him with his free hand, knocking Sam to the ground, unconscious.

"Coming?" he asked me, then began climbing out the window. With one last look at the Bayres – John shouting and cursing, and gesticulating with his gun, Mary now screaming and running to where Sammy was sprawled along the floorboards – I shrugged and jumped out after him. I really didn't want to have to stay there. Once John calmed down a little enough to aim, I'd be in trouble. Everyone knows better than to take on a Winchester empty handed.

We ran off into the trees, finally coming upon Prince Charming: Dean Edition's glistening black mare, Chevy. Just another thing he disregarded the regulations on; as a rule, Prince Charmings were supposed to have white steeds – to signify their goodness, and purity, or something. Prince Charming: Dean Edition had simply chosen the horse he'd fallen in love with, the miscoloured reject of the brood, and named her. I suppose they fitted. His dark good looks and her shining pitch black coat; plus there can be no question as to her devotion to him – she practically purrs whenever he touches her. Like every other female, really.

Prince Charming: Dean Edition slung Goldilocks, who'd fainted – either from the blood rush to her head, or her appalled take on the situation – over the saddle, then turned to me with his beaming smile. "That was fun," he said, "See you later."

"Wait, _what?_" I exclaimed, and grabbed onto Chevy's bridle. She tolerated me; we'd met many, _many_ times before. She's grown used to me yanking her around, although she does snort oat-scented breath into my face at every opportunity. "Why the tap did you intrude _again_?"

"To save the –"

"– goblin-tapping day, blah, blah, yeah, yeah. I _know. _Now what's the real reason?"

He looked down at me, the sun shining bright and high behind him, like a halo – damn sun, always against me. I was going to have to talk to Merryweather about that – and rose an elegant eyebrow, his face inscrutable. I glared back, unfazed. "I felt like it."

"You felt like it," I repeated, deadpan. Fairy-Godmother damnit. I ask him a _serious_ _question_, and he responds as he always does – immaturely, and as though I don't deserve a real answer. And I'd been feeling a slight fuzzy towards him; he had kind of saved my ass back there, where my only solution was to flee. No need to explain that that feeling had disappeared now, right?

"Yep. Now if you don't mind, I have to dump Goldilocks here back at her house before she wakes up and asks me to marry her or something."

"Whatever." I turned my back, and started walking back to headquarters.

"Hey, Narr?" he called after me, and I peeked over my shoulder, face blank. He grinned. "Nice jeans." And then he spun around, and rode off into the sunset. Sorry, sun_rise._ That line is kind of ingrained into every Narrator, so… wait – what the tap? What's wrong with my jeans? _He_ complimented them, so there must be something, I mean, it's not like he regularly hands out praise to me, unless its sarcastic, or he's trying to butter me up, or… maybe he actually _does_ like how I look in them, I mean, they make my rump look a lot smaller and –

That's it; I'm burning them as soon as I get home.

_------------------------------_

Back at headquarters I stumped into the canteen area, having just given my report, and threw myself into one of the chairs stacked around the cold fire place. On the other side of the room Narrator: Cassie Edition, and Narrator: Jo Edition were tittering over their beverages, gossiping about Prince Charming: Bobby Edition, and how he and Narrator: Ellen Edition were tapping each other in the stables every other day, and how _everyone_ knew it, it was just _so totally _obvious, _like, you know?_

_I_ hadn't known it, not that I was going to tell them that. They were so – I mean, seriously. Narrator: Cassie Edition likes _tea _for tap's sake, tries to force it on everyone in range, and Narrator: Jo Edition is just so boring I want to shoot myself in the head every time she talks to me. She has this slighted little girl act that makes me want to _vomit,_ and she acts like she wants to be a Prince Charming, or something. Let me tell you, my gaydar goes off every time she steps within a hundred metres of me. And the way she and Narrator: Cassie Edition look at each other sometimes… well, I don't think Prince Charming: Bobby Edition and Narrator: Ellen Edition were the only ones meeting up in the stables.

I sighed, and took a huge bite from my family-sized bar of Cadbury milk chocolate, then a sip of my coffee. Caffeine, just what that job ordered. Lots and _lots_ of caffeine. I had an _Alls Well That Ends Well_ assignment planned for this afternoon – and no matter what the title says, it takes a tapping long time to convince the characters of that particular maxim. I mean, even _I_ think it's a piece of sugar.

I'd just taken another ginormous mouthful when Extra: Starla Edition popped up next to my shoulder with a squealed, "Hi Narr!"

I kind of choked. She pounded me on the back. The chocolate flew out of my mouth and struck the wall next to Prince Charming: Gordon Edition's head.

Whoops. Not good.

Now, every one in N&PC is a little twisted, right? I mean, why else would we have chosen this job? But Prince Charming: Gordon Edition? He's downright psychotic. He tried to kill Oracle: Andy Edition and his ex girlfriend, Extra: Tracy Edition, because he thought the Oracles were part of some apocalyptic plan to end the world or something. Everyone knows things like the apocalypse don't happen in _fairytale land_, I mean, Fairy-Godmother. Still, the big cheese had let him come back as long as he didn't threaten anyone again – and Prince Charming: Dean Edition had kind of made it his job to make sure he kept his word.

The two of them had an even more rump-ugly history and ongoing relationship than Prince Charming: Dean Edition and me – and around here, that's kind of saying something.

Point of this spiel being – uh, I'd just spat a half-chewed chocolate glob at Prince Charming: Gordon Edition's noggin. He was looking pissy. I had to go, like, now.

"Where are you going Narr?" Extra: Starla Edition called after me, as I split the scene, leaving my sources of caffeine behind in the rush. I swear, can't the story maker spare a happy ending for a Narrator once in a while? It's always gotta be for the main characters. I mean, even Goldilocks got carried away by a handsome guy to places unknown, this time. Me? I end up getting threatened _yet again. _

In the gardens, I slumped low under the willow tree, and actually, _seriously_ considered resigning. Why the hell was I staying here, anyways? The pay sucked, the clients made me want to scratch my own eyeballs out, my colleagues barely put up with my presence… I should see if the Muffin Man still had a place for me on Drury Lane.

"Thought you'd be here," a familiar voice said to my left, a little while later, and I didn't even have to look to know who it was.

"Hey Prince Charming: Dean Edition," I sighed, and studied my toes.

"Dean," he insisted, and sat next to me.

"Come to rub it in?" I asked, still not looking. "Look what Narr's done and gone today; couldn't even handle a simple Goldilocks assignment, and then she went and practically spat on Prince Charming: Gordon Edition, because –"

"Nope," he said, and offered me some chocolate. I stared at it, before tentatively reaching out and breaking off a piece. As I put it in my mouth, he continued, "Just came to tell you what you forgot."

"Tell me?" I muttered around the mouthful.

"Yeah. Most important Narrator job there is."

"And what's that, Prin- Dean?"

"And they lived happily ever after, of course."

"Did they? I mean, Sam's probably got a concussion, and John and Mary are probably going to sue headquarters; Goldilocks boss is no doubt going to sue us as well, once they find out I let her eat porridge, and –"

He interrupted me with by popping another bite of chocolate in my mouth, and following it up with a kiss on my mouth that kind of left me speechless. It was a new experience.

"Uh…" I said, eyes still closed when he leaned back. I opened them to see him grinning cockily at me, lips glistening with chocolate and spit. It was breathtaking, really, if you liked that sort of thing.

"Say it."

"And they lived happily ever after, of course. After the Narrator got pashed again."

Have I mentioned lately that I love my job? Narrators always get the last word.

_------------------------------_

Moral: If you break and enter a house that contains characters that closely resemble the Winchester family from the CW's show 'Supernatural', you may get threatened by a gun or two, but in the end a cute guy will kiss you and offer you caffeine.

All in all; Alls Well That Ends Well, and all that junk. Zeppelin Rules!

_------------------------------_

AN: I am on crack. That's the only explanation I have. Schmoop and snark may also have been taken excessively, in their dissolved forms. Thanks to the ever beautiful** The Goddess Aurora**, who beta'd me sweetly, and suggested something to do with Jack and the Beanstalk in relation to Sam. This is dedicated to her, for being a wonderful P.I.M.P. and just generally fabulous in all ways. If you haven't read her supernatural fics, do so immediately. Pixc.

(Dictionary: 'tap': fuck. 'sugar': shit. 'Fairy-Godmother': god. 'rump': ass.)


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